


Les Temps Perdu

by laisserais



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-21
Updated: 2007-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/laisserais
Summary: many decades post-NFA, Spike is jolted by a memory.





	Les Temps Perdu

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from LJ. Originally posted 4/21/07

  
**title** : les temps perdu [1 of 1]  
**word count** : 900-ish  
**pairing** : spike/angel  
**beta** : [](http://apreludetoanend.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://apreludetoanend.livejournal.com/)**apreludetoanend** (thank you!)  
**rating** : no sex, only longing  
**summary** : many decades post-NFA, Spike is jolted by a memory.  
**a/n** : les temps perdu means roughly, 'lost time' in French.

 ****

* * *

  
**Les Temps Perdu**

Years can be spent in the artful construction of solitude. But every precaution and every elaborate defense can come crashing down in a moment.

Spike should have realized that time gave no grace. Even miles between and oceans couldn't stop the cycle in its creaky revolution. The wheel turned and there he was: staring at a shape so familiar his heart ached. His eyes stung and he tightened his grasp on the arms of the chair to keep himself still. He swallowed hard. Forced himself to remain silent as stone.

*

Three rows down and one over the contours of a dark head and sloping shoulders were outlined in chandelier light. The lines of the back, now covered in black silk, were more familiar than home.

An intimate knowledge of every expression, every mood, every motion of that body was a net woven around his heart, and its strings pulled taut as he watched the strong profile bow slightly in deference to some inconsequential remark.

There were others surrounding him, speaking to him in low tones, and he responded in kind. He was a king in his castle.

Or a castle within its moat.

And didn't it just figure that he'd gotten himself a new set of pets. Probably still at it. All of it. Always did need to play at being the paterfamilias.

Spike wondered if this new lot knew about what happened. Their shared history which, for a while now, had slipped into the realm of myth.

Three rows down and one over was an unbreachable fortress.

A spark of righteous anger leapt into flame, fanned by the sense of a possession stolen. Something he'd left unguarded was gone.

Spike's fingers itched in their grip of the armrests. He wanted to dismantle that citadel brick by brick, but it was an ancient desire; one he'd never been able to parse.

He wanted to raze its walls in blind destruction and he wanted to steal inside like a thief.

Curl up in the corner where no one would see him.

He'd built a strong dam, mortar and rock. It had taken years and hard labor; it should have held. But one glimpse of a head dipping graciously and it began to splinter. Things were seeping in.

Or maybe out.

He took a vertiginous breath as memories of that last day threatened to swamp him, to carry him out of here and now and wash him into the sea of everything he'd worked to forget.

That last shining day where he had everything he ever wanted. For just a moment.

More than most could say.

He was close enough to reach out, stroke sinew and spine, a gesture of both surrender and possession. The strong back, unbowed and unclothed. A smile over a shoulder and then a laugh. His hand tightened around ribs and pulled, pleading, and resistance was overcome.

In a twilight-streaked room, a shadow of a memory of welcome; an echo of a sigh of belonging. With his eyes shut tight, a pale flame flickered; the symbol of perfect understanding.

He breathed once.

The light died and it was over.

*

The room was plunged into darkness and the past receded, but the shoulders remained, reproaching him with what he'd lost-- thrown or given away.

The touch of a palm overlaying his own startled him. He looked up to find that he'd missed the first act. He stood when his companion did and followed the trickle of humans to join the river flooding toward the lobby.

*

Spike sipped from his glass and turned away, frowning when he caught himself scanning the crowd.

From the shore of the faux Egyptian mural to the sandy beach of the bar, dismissing every sequin-covered matron and bored looking debutante, and buffeted on the rocks of gray-templed men and paunchy, middle-aged executives, his gaze was snagged, here and there, by a head rising proudly above the throng or a commanding figure parting the sea around him.

He imagined brushing up against him, a gentle accident in a civilized world.

Feet planted squarely, he would be an immovable object, head nodding briefly before returning to motionlessness, arms unconsciously protective, resting at his sides. Prepared, though. Every muscle coiled and at the ready.

Years of practice. Centuries.

Standing closer than a lover he would breathe in the smell of family. Of home. It was what he missed the most. Reassurance embodied in the invisible.

Spike laughed softly. Bollocks. Best to leave it alone. It would only start again and he'd taken so long to heal.

He could already feel the hole tearing wider, the rough, disjointed surface only encouraging the cracks to grow.

There was no comfort there, only an illusion. Always had been, if he was honest. The man he'd made up in his mind- that man had never really existed.

He'd known, even then, that it was a lie. He was just a proxy. A… symbol. Thick-skulled sod.

The house lights dimmed, another inarticulate signal of the cycle, and Spike set his glass down.

Bury the dead. Let the bells chime the memory.

It was time to start again.


End file.
